When I Dress as a Woman, I Dream of a Real Man
I dream sometimes too. Not always while asleep, because although it almost never shows, I have a little heart tucked away somewhere.
I dream mostly when I put on the lingerie and the blonde wig, when I stand in front of the mirror and adjust the garter of my stockings with my fingertips. I weigh my breasts in my hands, swivel my hips to see whether the black lace of the thong enhances my curves enough, and regard with some concern the bulge my belly makes beneath the faux-leather corset. That is when, as I turn into Bianca, I let myself go and begin to imagine a man. Not just any male. A real man.
One who knows how to caress me with love and firmness at the same time. Who kisses me as though that kiss cost him his heart. Who makes love to me in that way we all know and almost none of us receive: penetrating me forcefully while looking at me tenderly, bending me to his will and his weight and yet managing, in that instant, to make me feel like the most important thing in the world. A man capable of asking me for any filthy thing without pleading, without violence, without the heavy insistence of someone who only wants to get off. Who makes me want it too, with the contagious confidence of someone who knows what he’s doing.
One who lays me on my back and slowly spreads my legs, in no hurry, taking his time looking at all of me, running his tongue over my nipples until my whole body prickles, pulling my thong down with his teeth while whispering filth in my ear. Who licks me all over, without disgust or prejudice, who sucks mine too, who licks my cock until I’m hard and then lets go and devours my ass with his mouth open, thrusting his tongue inside until a broken moan escapes me. Who chuckles softly when he hears me crack and continues, opening me slowly with two saliva-wet fingers, searching for that spot that makes me arch my back as though I’d been struck by electricity. Who prepares me thoroughly, without rushing, until I’m open and begging him to put it in already.
And then, when I can’t take any more, he climbs on top of me and drives it all the way in with a single thrust, his hand around my neck and his eyes fixed on mine. He fucks me slowly at first, savoring it, and then angrily, until the bed squeaks, pulling my hair, turning me over, putting me on all fours, spanking my ass with his open palm until it’s red. He calls me a slut, his slut, without ever stopping calling me beautiful between thrusts. He fucks me until I come without touching myself, drenching everything, and he holds out a little longer to empty himself inside me with a growl that makes me tremble.
I dream that after submitting me to his whims, after marking me with his scent and his spankings, he doesn’t throw me out of bed or slink away like a scalded cat. That he stays. That he lets me rest my head on his chest and listen to his heart, still racing from the effort. That he holds me and whispers things that raise gooseflesh on my skin. That he wraps his arms around me and makes me feel protected from this cruel world and all its threats.
That he seduces me like a lady, fucks me like a slut, and then takes care of me like a treasure.
That he loves me exactly as I am. With my contradictions, with the love handles I can’t manage to hide, with my ambivalence and all my secrets weighing on me.
In the dream there are clean sheets and a bedside lamp left on. There’s breakfast the next day, reheated coffee, a silly conversation about nothing. There’s someone who asks how I slept and truly waits for the answer. That’s what I find hardest to imagine, even more than his hands: the morning after. The part where desire cools and yet someone decides to stay anyway.
How easy it is to dream in front of a mirror.
Sometimes I indulge myself by imagining a prince, whatever color he may be, who rescues me from this life of moving from bed to bed, from dark room to dark room. Always getting myself into trouble, always dragging myself into the shadows to offer myself to strangers who use me like a handkerchief, like a receptacle, like a shameful fantasy they don’t quite understand but can’t stop trying.
And I sigh, thinking of what that knight of the woeful countenance would be like. Masculine and tender at once, at peace with himself and with me. Capable of loving me for what I am, not in spite of it. I imagine an entire life with him. Being his, his alone, even if only behind closed doors. Receiving flowers for no reason, an awkward handwritten note, an anniversary present that doesn’t remember the exact date but arrives anyway.
And giving him, only him and only because I wanted to, the hidden pleasures he barely dares to fantasize about. Who knows. A threesome with that shameless friend of mine, both of us on our knees sucking him at the same time, taking turns with his balls and the tip until he unloads on our faces and we eat it between kisses, our tongues out, without letting a drop fall. A night of swinging with the young couple downstairs, watching him fuck her while I kiss her and they touch me with four hands, changing holes, mingling until we lose count. Giving him the pleasure, if that’s what turns him on, of inviting his friends over and putting myself at their disposal in front of him, letting them spread my legs one after another, one sucking me while another thrusts into me from behind, another waiting his turn with his hard cock in his hand, and him watching from the armchair, proud, possessive, knowing that when it’s over I’ll be his alone again. Anything, so long as at the end of the night I fell asleep safe in the shelter of his arms.
I close my eyes and can almost feel the burning kiss of his spanks on my buttocks, the fresh taste of his shameless mouth, the look filled with desire and something more with which he could get absolutely anything from me.
***
But then I look at the clock.
I’m running late. I rearrange my breasts inside the dress, fluff my wig, straighten the thong strap in the cleft of my ass. I resignedly see that a run has started in my left stocking, and there’s no time to change it. Bianca has a date, as she does almost every night, and Bianca is expected.
I get ready to meet another one of those men. One who receives me in his darkened home, or comes to mine looking in every direction as if the police were after him, or waits for me inside a van parked in the shadows of an empty lot. Sweaty men who paw me with anxious clumsiness, who squeeze my fake breasts over my dress as though they might tear them off, who shove a hand under my skirt without asking and feel my package with a mixture of arousal and fright. Who kiss me furiously, almost biting more than kissing, forcing their tongues down my throat, grabbing me by the hair of my wig as if it were my own. Who unzip themselves two minutes in, pull out an already-hard cock, push me down by the shoulders, and pant like dogs when I swallow it all the way, holding the back of my head with both hands, fucking my mouth without giving me a moment to breathe, until tears escape me and my mascara runs down my cheeks.
The kind who lunge to eat my sex with their eyes closed, as though keeping them shut meant I wouldn’t notice their straight-guy façade crumbling to pieces. Who grasp my cock with a trembling hand and put it in their mouths while still frowning, sucking me in jerky, clumsy pulls, with their teeth, until they relax and start sucking me for real, all the way down, their throats open, dying to swallow what they claim not to want. They turn me over, spread my buttocks with both hands, and devour my ass with brutal appetite, burying their tongues, covering me in spit, as though licking me insistently could restore the manhood they think they lost a minute earlier. And finally they push it into me without consideration, brutally, in a single thrust, without lubricant, without waiting for me to open, driven by a desire that has burned inside them since they saw the photos of my lingerie-clad ass on the app.
They grab my hips desperately and thrust all the way in, their pelvis slamming against my buttocks, producing that wet, obscene sound of flesh against flesh that drives them wild. They beat my buttocks violently, leaving the imprint of their palms, yanking my wig as if it were reins. They disguise their moans of pleasure as insults: slut, sow, whore, take it all, and other worse things they say more to themselves than to me, spat through clenched teeth so they won’t hear themselves trembling. They thrust with that animal brutality they later justify by saying they don’t usually do this, that they don’t really know how to behave, that they’re in a hurry in case their wife arrives. They change positions without warning, lay me facedown with my face crushed against the mattress, pull me astride them and force me to ride them while they pinch my nipples, press me against the wall with one leg raised, and fuck me standing up until my knees give way. After a few minutes they come in spasms and with a hoarse growl, filling me inside without even asking, or pull out at the last moment to spray my face, or my chest, or my mouth, aiming with a trembling hand and ordering me to open up and stick out my tongue, because almost all of them arrive with the same fetish learned alone in front of some cheap video, as if it were a secret script that had to be followed.
And I, being what I am, say yes to all of them.
I let them mark me, leave me smeared with sweat and saliva and semen, my lingerie half torn, my cheeks reddened, my ass open and dripping, my body aching. Reduced to a ball of flesh with which they have silenced, for a while at least, that craving that drives them and fills them equally with lust and shame.
The kind who often leave me half-finished because they “couldn’t hold out any longer” and, as soon as they’re done, “they come down and don’t feel like anything anymore.” The kind who reluctantly agree to rub my cock with two fingers without looking at it while I jerk myself off over their thighs, trying not to spatter them too much, so I’m not left wanting.
The kind who, as soon as they’ve vented their frustrations on me, avoid my eyes. They turn away the face they had been desperately seeking a moment before. They avoid my kisses. They leave, or ask me to leave, nervous, as though my body were a mirror in which they could see truths about themselves that their poor pride as very manly men couldn’t bear.
The kind, in fact, that last night’s man was.
He kissed me until I couldn’t breathe, biting my lips, sucking my neck until he left a bruise. He used my mouth angrily, pulling out his cock before even saying hello, shoving it to the back of my throat and fucking it against the doorframe until my gagging made me cry. He dragged me into the living room, hiked up my dress without taking it off, ripped off my thong, and rammed me against the back of the sofa, on my knees, my face crushed against the leather. He spat on my ass, rubbed his cock against my buttocks twice, and drove it in hard, without preparation, biting the nape of my neck, growling like an animal. He fucked me at a savage pace, gripping my hips with both hands, spanking my buttocks with his open palm between thrusts, insulting me under his breath, and came inside me in less than five minutes, emptying himself with an almost painful moan, coming so deep inside that I felt the tip throb against my walls. Afterward, while I dressed in silence with his semen running down the inside of my thigh, he couldn’t bring himself to look me in the face. He asked me to leave his house while his trace was still dripping out of me.
—That’s it —he said, turning his back on me as he searched for his wallet to pay me—. I have to get up early.
—Relax —I replied, tying my coat over my dress—. I was just leaving.
There was nothing more. There never is.
***
Those men—the ones I wouldn’t dream of in my wildest nightmares—are the ones I have to live with. They’re the ones who exist in this concrete reality, the only one there is, whether we like it or not. And they’re the ones who give me that urgent, raw, dirty passion, shameful to them, that I settle for. Partly because, let’s not deny it, I also like feeling used, fucked without consideration, treated like the slut I am on those nights. And partly because I understand that, quite simply, it’s all they have to give.
And even so, it isn’t always horrible. There are nights when one of them lingers a little longer than necessary, when a kiss lasts a second too long before he remembers to be afraid, when a hand travels down my back with something resembling tenderness before pulling away abruptly, like someone realizing he has said too much. I live on those stolen seconds. I collect them. I stretch them out during the ride home like someone sucking the last candy from his pocket.
I repeat it to myself in the taxi home, with the wig in my lap and my washed face reflected in the window. I repeat it while I slowly remove my makeup and watch Bianca disappear down the drain with the warm water, until the other face appears in the mirror again, the everyday one, the one no one spanks or worships.
And even so, tomorrow I’ll open the drawer again. I’ll untangle the wig again, stretch a fresh stocking over my leg, adjust the garter with my fingertips. I’ll look at myself again and feel, for an instant, that girlish flutter of someone getting dressed for a person who is waiting for her.
Because when all is said and done, darlings, a caress is a caress. And a real man is still, even now, the only thing I truly lack.
Dreams, as they say, are only dreams.
But they’re mine. And no one can take them away from me.
